


the signs of regret

by Iazarus_rising



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Drunk Witchers, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Feral Bastard, M/M, One Shot, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, geralt brings jaskier to kaer morhen, i think, short-haired Geralt, there is no timeline in this, they're in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:41:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23831773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iazarus_rising/pseuds/Iazarus_rising
Summary: Jaskier convinces Geralt to teach him the witcher signs. Easy, physical spells, something to defend himself with.After having his ass set on fire, Geralt comes to regret his decision.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Vesemir, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 260





	the signs of regret

**Author's Note:**

> just a heads up, geralt has short hair in this one. if you want to know why, it’s in the first haircut/postrzyżyny fic

At that point of spending the winter at Kaer Morhen, Jaskier could have sworn his brain was starting to itch from boredom.

When Geralt asked him to join him in the keep, Jaskier was absolutely _delighted_. The bard knew the invitation wasn’t something presented to any random person, that it meant something for the witcher. And he was absolutely over the moon with the proposition. His brain had already came up with multiple ballad-worthy adventures him and Geralt would have in there, all the amazing stories, all the tall-tales of pushing away angry villagers trying to kill the witchers, oh poor souls, they had no idea who were they messing with, or, _even better_ , a hunt for a vivern settled somewhere near the witchers' trail, oh _that_ would had made a _ballad_!

It was safe to say Jaskier had built up _expectations_. Expectations of grandeur even.

When him and Geralt arrived to the run-down keep, a castle way past its prime, with a leaky roof and a squeaky bed, Jaskier still had his hopes up. The holes in the outer wall surely had history to them and the bard just couldn’t wait to hear all about them, all about the glorious days of Kaer Morhen, when the place was swarming with witchers, both young and old, training and getting better. He couldn’t wait to hear of all the wondrous battles the monster hunters _surely_ took part in, his romantic soul already imagining all the ballads he was going to write about _all of this_.

And then reality hit him like a very fast horse carriage. It galloped all over him and hit him with a hoof against his head. It left a mark.

It turned out Kaer Morhen was absolutely, mind-numbingly _boring_. All Geralt did were repairs here and there, and of course Jaskier tried to help, but after he accidentally hit Geralt with a hammer, he was pushed aside from any maintenance work. He was pretty much left to his own devices with only so much to do in a run-down keep. After a week the bard was pretty sure he would be able to draw a map of all the rooms and passageways in the entire castle from memory.

He tried keeping company to the other witchers, but, weirdly, they couldn’t bear Jaskier for long. Which the bard couldn’t quite grasp, he was a _joy_ to be around, wasn’t he?

Then the first sword practice came along, and oh boy, Jaskier got his hopes up _again_. He was _so excited_ to see the witchers (mainly Geralt) swing their swords in a violent and yet beautifully enthralling dance, maybe he would get to see them shirtless ( _especially_ Geralt). And then the practice happened in reality instead of in Jaskier’s imagination, leaving the bard immensely disappointed! Again!

The only fun parts of the days at Kaer Morhen turned out to be the evenings, when all the witchers gathered around the old, battered, worn-down table in the main hall and shared their stories of hunts, blood, and gore over a pint or two, and that, oh gods, _that_ was something Jaskier could work with. He would open his little notebook and meticulously scribble down the more interesting parts, a grin never leaving his face, the tip of his tongue sticking out a bit, his blue eyes twinkling in the dimly lit room. He would then grab his lute and sing a spontaneous song of the tall-tales he had just heard, the witchers groaning in unison at the first tunes, Geralt looking at the bard like he had never looked at anyone else before, as if Jaskier was an unexplained force of nature.

But even the evenings got boring after a while. The stories started to repeat, Jaskier’s voice went raspy because of the moist in the air, because of the _wetness_ ever present in the keep. And so the bard was bored, again.

See, the thing about Jaskier was, he hated boredom with hot iron-white fury, teeth grinned and all of that. He absolutely couldn’t stand it, he had to be doing something interesting all the time, or else he would become even more feral than usually. And the thing about Jaskier’s mind was, boredom was one of the two situations in which it would come up with the most ridiculous ideas, and then be absolutely certain the ideas in question were brilliant, unmatched, ground-breaking.

So it was only a matter of time before Jaskier thought of something, and then he only had to convince Geralt to comply with his idea of killing boredom.

And that would be the easy part.

△

“You want me to teach you _what_?” Geralt asked, still groggy from being pulled from sleep this early.

The bard and the witcher were laying in their bed in Kaer Morhen, on one of the many squeaky beds, the room still dark at this ungodly hour of six in the morning. Jaskier was staring at his witcher with his eyes twinkling in the dark, opened wide with excitement. 

“Those witcher signs of yours.” The bard answered, knowing Geralt would break sooner or later.

“Why?” Geralt prolonged the short question with a yawn, and then stretched on the bed like a cat, making his limbs as long as he possibly could.

“Well, there are multiple reasons for this-” Jaskier started, sitting up on the bed with his back against the stone wall, a shiver of sudden cold running down his spine.

“Cut it short.”

“What, like I did with your hair?” Jaskier asked, and ran his hand through Geralt’s short, snow-white strands, a smirk gracing his face. And even though the gesture did feel nice, Geralt might or might have not purred just a bit, the sound rumbling in his chest, he was slightly irritated by his bard’s stalling attempts.

“ _Jaskier_.”

“Oh, _alright_. So I was doing some thinking-”

“Surprising.”

An affectionate smack on the head.

“ _Don’t interrupt me_. Where was I- _oh, right_. So, I was doing some thinking and I came to a conclusion that I should be able to defend myself.” The troubadour started laying the ground for what he knew would result in Geralt’s agreement.

“Jaskier, we both know that whenever you’re in trouble, I’m the one getting you out of it. And if not, then you’re perfectly capable of talking your way out of the mess. Probably created by you anyway.” Geralt pointed out, slightly amused at Jaskier’s attempts to convince him.

“Yes, I know, and I’m so _very_ grateful for your help, but the point is that I don’t _always_ travel with you, dear. Sometimes I’m completely alone out there. And _before_ you point this out, _yes_ , I _do_ carry two daggers with me, but a dagger is often not enough, and I cannot always rely on my silver tongue. What if you’re not there and I get _jumped_ by _bandits_ of some sort? Or worse, a _monster_? Wouldn’t you feel more _at peace_ if I could just set them on fire? Or use the shield thingy and just be safe? Even when you’re not _there_.”

“I’d be more worried if anything.” Geralt mumbled, his mind already imagining all the trouble Jaskier would get himself into by using the signs.

“Why?”

“The first thing you’d do is overuse the signs and set something on fire. Or get yourself in even bigger trouble.”

Jaskier let out an undignified gasp, putting his palm right over his chest.

“ _Me_? Being so _irresponsible_ with the signs and not using them according to their purpose? _Geralt_ , just how _low_ your opinion of me _is_?” The bard continued with his attempts to convince his dear witcher, his silvery voice in full effect now.

Geralt’s mouth was already forming his response, his tongue was already prepared to say the one word, “No”, but then-

Then his palm found its way to Jaskier’s face, his thumb tracing the scar just under the bard’s jaw, the scar from when Geralt had been just a second too slow, the scar Geralt kissed better oh so many times-

The guilt he still felt went up to his throat and lodged itself there, a nasty reminder of how vulnerable Jaskier was. 

The witcher sighed.

“Alright.” He agreed, his thumb still on the scar.

Jaskier’s eyes immediately grew plate-sized, a grin so wide on his lips it looked as if it was about to split his face in half.

“You’ll teach me the signs?” The bard asked, voice a pitch higher from excitement.

“Yes. Now get up, we have work to do.” Geralt grabbed Jaskier by his naked thigh, caressed the soft skin for a short while.

“ _We_?” The man asked, bewildered.

“Yes, I’ll teach you. But in return you’ll get dirty and help me with patching the walls.” The witcher could hear the sounds of protest before they left Jaskier’s mouth.

“ _Geralt_ -” Jaskier whined, already prepared for talking his way out of this chore, but-

“You won’t get out of this.”

Jaskier knew Geralt’s tones and songs by heart. And this tone right there? It told Jaskier everything he needed to know. It also told him there was no point in arguing.

“Oh _alright_.” The bard pouted for a short while, but then a wide smile graced his lips. He leaned over to the witcher, already sitting on his side of the bed, and planted a kiss on the man’s temple.

“Thank you.” He whispered, his voice just the right tone of sultry.

“You’ll thank me later. Now get up.” The witcher responded in a low rumble. Jaskier knew exactly what Geralt meant by those words.

Geralt was well-aware Jaskier would use the signs on his own accord. But, to be completely frank with himself, the witcher was a bit excited to see his bard getting creative with the magic.

Maybe it would even be worth being scolded by Vesemir. Just maybe.

△

“I hope you do realize you will come to regret teaching the signs to this bard of yours.” Vesemir said, taking another sip from his tankard.

The remaining four witchers of Kaer Morhen were gathered by the battered table, the table that had probably seen more drunk idiot witchers than any other table in the entire Continent. Some drunk sorceress, too. And one very drunk bard. The room was lit only by the fire bristling in the fireplace, not that it mattered to the four men. They all were excellent at seeing in the dark.

“Hm?” Geralt grunted in response, following into Vesemir’s footsteps and rising his tankard to his mouth.

“The first thing he’ll do once he understands them is getting revenge for you knocking him over the first day of training.” The master witcher elaborated, his right index finger tracing the patterns on the table.

“Yeah, and the second will be using them in ways they were not made to be used in. Like lightning a candle.” Eskel added, and Geralt figured telling them Jaskier had already tried that would not help him in this discussion.

“Or setting your ass on fire.” Lambert chimed in with a shit-eating grin on his lips, the grin everyone at the table hated with a passion.

“I know.” Geralt grunted out the answer, his eyes fixed into the liquid in his tankard.

“Oh, you do?” Lambert sneered at Geralt, his fingers tapping on the wooden table.

Geralt looked up from the drink, the slight annoyance clear in the way he spoke.

“What, did you seriously think I’m stupid enough not to notice Jaskier is a little shit sometimes?” 

Lambert and Eskel looked at each other knowingly. Then the younger witcher turned his head towards Geralt and answered his, rhetorical in intent, question.

“Well, honestly, yes.”

“To be clear, Geralt, maybe not stupid enough. Lovesick enough would be a better phrasing of your current condition.” Eskel added, a small smile creeping up on his scar-torn face.

Geralt didn’t deny anything. He was done denying, both in front of himself, and in front of others. Especially if he considered the others his closest friends.

“I did notice. I just don’t mind it that much.” He finally said, remembering the time by the lake when Jaskier just casually wished for murder.

The answer earned a scoff from Lambert.

“He could murder a man and you still wouldn’t mind it.” The witcher stated, lifting up his tankard and taking a big gulp of his ale.

“He already tried. More than once.” Geralt thought to himself, deciding not to say it out loud. 

“Well, to be fair, Yennefer isn’t pure and innocent either.” Eskel pointed out, remembering the one time Yennefer visited the witchers’ lair.

Let’s just say her stay wasn’t very pleasurable for any of Geralt’s friends. It wasn’t that Yennefer hated them all or that she was mean on purpose. She just happened to visit Kaer Morhen on a _mission_ , and, well, being a stubborn person, she really didn’t want to take any advice. Needless to say, Eskel, Lambert, and Vesemir weren’t really overtaken by sympathy for her.

“Oh, _that_ goes without question. At least the bard’s nice to us. And he doesn’t boss everyone around like he owns the place.” Lambert added his own comment on the issue with a scoff.

“You seem to have a thing for people with absolutely no instincts of self-preservation, White Wolf.” Eskel pointed out with a smile.

The youngest witcher commented further with no second to spare.

“And people that are absolutely feral, may I add.” Well, he was right about that, and Geralt had no intention of letting himself being dragged into a discussion. He knew he’d lose anyway.

“If you understand the sign teaching will turn on you sooner or later, why do you still do this?” Vesemir changed the subject to the original matter of the entire conversation, the subject that had long been buried by discussions of Geralt’s past and present love interests.

Geralt’s thoughts swallowed him whole, just for a while.

A while long enough for him to remember the oh so many times Jaskier had followed the witcher somewhere dangerous, usually to a monster’s lair. He remembered their first adventure together, when Toruviel had kicked Jaskier when he was bound and defenseless, how she could had broken something very easily. And he remembered the one time he was too slow, the one time Jaskier had had a knife to his throat.

He remembered about that little scar just under the troubadour’s jaw. The scar he had kissed so many times it felt like its shape was seared into his lips forever.

And then Geralt gave his answer.

“To keep him safe.” He said, his voice just a bit hoarser than usual, just a little bit worn down.

“From what? You two are practically joined at the hip.” Lambert asked, realizing his tankard was now empty, reaching for the bottle standing in front of him.

“I won’t always be there. And I want him to have something more than a dagger to defend his sorry ass with.”

“You’re worried about him.” Vesemir stated the obvious to anyone with eyes and ears.

Even though Geralt never confirmed or denied anything, the witchers knew. They had known from the second Geralt appeared with the bard in Kaer Morhen. It was clear to them, knowing the White Wolf as well as they did. It was in the way he behaved when the bard was near, the way he seemed to gravitate towards the younger man. 

Geralt didn't need to say anything. It was obvious to anyone with eyes. Even not as good as the ones of a witcher.

△

Jaskier’s eyes were pale blue. They always reminded Geralt of the sky in the early morning, when everything was still and peaceful. When he could rest for just a moment. He loved how every time Jaskier had a bad idea, a mischievous glint sparked them alive, and that’s when Geralt knew they were in for some big trouble.

Jaskier’s eyes were human. Not like his own, fouly coloured, artificially altered. The bard’s eyes were ordinary, which also meant he was not really capable of seeing well in complete darkness.

The kind of darkness the bard and his witcher found themselves in. The darkness of a cave, hiding long-forgotten elven ruins, keeping their secrets away from unwanted visitors.

The only source of light in the crippling shadows was a torch held by Jaskier, illuminating their way through the mazes of winding corridors and abandoned chambers. And maybe his eyes were nowhere near as good as Geralt’s, maybe he wasn’t able to see in the dark with ease, but if there was one thing in this world Jaskier was a master in, it was deciphering Geralt’s body language. They’d spent so much time together, so many _years_ , the bard was pretty sure he could conduct a series of classes on the witcher’s body and how it behaved.

Jaskier could see the slouched posture despite the dim light, he could see the arm reaching back, ready to grab the sword at any moment. He knew Geralt must had seen or heard something dangerous.

He also knew Geralt was probably regretting letting him tag along into the cave. Regretting oh so very deeply.

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“Is everything alright?” Jaskier asked, just slightly unsettled by Geralt’s behaviour.

“Perfectly fine.” Came the very unconvincing answer.

“Then why are you behaving as if a monster could jump us any second?”

Instead of answering, Geralt halted. He was tense all over, like a wolf ready to jump at its prey.

Jaskier knew what that meant.

“Oh, I suppose a monster _is_ going to jump us any second!”

“Sh, I think I heard something.”

“ _Don’t shush m_ -” Before Jaskier could finish his sentence, Geralt’s hand was covering his mouth.

Jaskier did think of licking the witcher’s palm for a second, but after a moment of consideration he decided against it. Geralt’s hands were probably dirty and sweaty, and that wasn’t something Jaskier wanted to put his tongue to.

Silence fell on both of them, Geralt trying to catch the sound he had heard before Jaskier started talking. When he did manage to separate the sound from the background noise, a curse slipped from his mouth.

“Jaskier, turn around and get out of the cave.” The witcher instructed his partner, removing his palm from the bard’s face.

“What?” Jaskier replied, his voice a bit higher in pitch from disbelief.

“There’s a golem in the chamber right in front of us.” Geralt explained, and, by the look of his face, Jaskier knew that monster was no usual monster of the week.

He still asked anyway.

“And?”

“And it’s too dangerous. They are powerful beings. I can’t be distracted by trying to protect you.”

Jaskier appreciated the honesty, but under no circumstances would he let anyone insinuate he was useless.

“I can take care of myself!” He responded, stubborn and just slightly outraged.

“No, you can’t. Not against this one. Just listen to reason this one time and get out of here.” Geralt tried to reason with his partner, but Jaskier? Jaskier would not be reasoned with. Not now, not ever. 

“And what, leave you here on your own? What if you get hurt? Who will protect you then?”

“I won’t get hurt. I’ll see you on the surface.” Geralt was pretty sure about that. The witcher was confident in his ability to get out of this unscathed, Jaskier could see the confidence blooming on his face, showing in the way his shoulders relaxed just a bit.

Jaskier let out a very undignified and irritated sigh.

“Oh Sweet Melitele, is the armour blueprint really _this_ important? Can’t we just both turn around and go back?” He asked, gesturing roughly towards the direction of the exit from the cave.

“It is important to me.” Geralt said, and he looked at his bard with those golden eyes of his, the eyes that had always reminded Jaskier of the oceans of wheat in the fields in summer, drowning in the sun and illuminating the Earth golden.

And how could he say no to these eyes?

“Mphm. _Fine_. Just get back to me in one piece you stubborn arse.” Came the reluctant response. Jaskier crossed his arms over his chest, pouting just a bit.

“Promise.” Geralt planted a short kiss on Jaskier’s lips, the bard smiling just so slightly against the witcher’s mouth.

“Go on. Kill that thing and get that blueprint.”

Geralt’s scar-ridden face split into a confident smirk, a rare sight on the witcher. A sight Jaskier adored with his entire body and soul.

The bard turned on his heel and begun his journey back to the entrance. The trip back to the open space where the bard and the witcher had left their horses was actually not that hard, at least not as hard as Jaskier had expected. Well, maybe except for the one slip-up, when a misplaced foot made Jaskier tumble to his back. If there was ever a time when he was glad about not taking his lute somewhere, that was definitely it.

So apart from that little accident, the trek back to the surface proved to be quite uneventful and quite easy, what, with Jaskier’s set of troubadour lungs? Trained over the years from the singing and dancing and running from monsters? Jaskier might not have looked like it, but his stamina was something to be jealous of. Reaching the entrance was a piece of pie for him. A pie with filling at that.

Trouble began when Jaskier was almost at the exit. His ears caught on to two unknown voices, discussing something rather excitedly, but the thing was, Jaskier had an almost superhuman sound memory. He could repeat a tune just after hearing it once, and, well, voices were no exception to his abilities. So hearing two voices belonging to male strangers, two voices coming from the place where he’d left not only his horse, but also his _lute_? Not an ordinary lute either, an elvish lute, a fine piece of craftsmanship, worth probably quite a handsome sum?

Not good.

 _Definitely_ not good.

The bard put out the torch still in his hand and creeped as close to the entrance as he possibly could without the risk of being seen. His initial plan was to observe, nothing more; just stand there, wait until Geralt came back, the thieves would probably break their legs in the rushed attempts of running away at the mere sight of the witcher and there, problem solved. Jaskier decided that he would only react if the men actually stole something. That was definitely the plan Jaskier was going for, but then-

“Hey, look at this.” The taller one of the two thugs pointed, much to the bard’s dread, to the lute attached to the saddle. He got the instrument out of the protective bag with his greasy, slimy, _sacrilegious_ fingers and took a quick look at all the ornaments on the box. “Looks like it could be worth a fair amount of coin, huh?”

Jaskier watched in _horror_ as the man’s dirty and oily hands left all kinds of residue on his precious instrument, and , _oh gods_ **DAMNED** be the plan, he had to do _something_! 

So before he could think of all the consequences his actions might have, or of the physical advantage the two men doubtlessly had, or of the bodily harm that might result from what he was about to do, Jaskier jumped out of the cave, his legs and mouth working faster than his mind did.

His palms were twisted into firm fists, the hot white fury filled his entire body with fire coursing through his veins, there was rage in his blue eyes, rage in the form of a thunderstorm forming on the horizon, when one knows they should seek shelter but it would be _impossible_ to run from it in time.

Jaskier was a sight to behold when angry. A sight most people were genuinely scared of, despite the unassuming looks of the bard. See, there were a few rumours circling the Continent, rumours about what Jaskier was capable of when made truly angry.

So he stormed out of the cave, shouting “You put that lute down! Right this instant!”, his trained tenor bellowing like a thunder clap across the clearing, adrenaline only making him want to go further.

The thief took a good look at Jaskier. What he saw was a man of average build, unarmed, clearly not trained in fighting (at least that’s what he thought), clad in fancy, expensive clothes, clothes in no way fit for a brawl.

The thief didn’t look closely enough, though. He must have overlooked the boiling storm gathering in the bard’s posture, the murderous zeal in his eyes. The poor man labeled him as a non-threat, an unthreat even. He looked at his partner in crime and sneered.

“And what are you going to do if I don’t, _bardling_? Sing us to death?” The man took a jab at Jaskier, stepping away from the horse and closer to the bard, the lute still in his filthy hands.

“Maybe wave your finger at us, eh?” The other thief added, his face twisted in a cruel smile.

Both of them unsheathed their swords.

Oh, the _mistake_ they had made.

See, Jaskier was perfectly capable of taking care of himself even before Geralt had taught him how to cast the signs. But now? Now he was a storm transformed, molded into a hailstorm.

Before the thieves could do anything, Jaskier made an appropriate gesture with his left hand, casting Quen on himself. A thin, yellow veil hugged his body like a second skin. 

That alone made the thieves doubt themselves. They staggered, took a few steps back.

“Did you see-”

‘Was this _magic_?”

“But he doesn’t look like a mage!”

Jaskier whipped out the dagger he kept in his left shoe and with one, swift motion, he threw it at the shorter thief. That was something Jaskier had learned after that incident that left him scarred.

The dagger landed right in the thief’s thigh.

A loud screech echoed throughout the glade.

“Give the lute _back_.” Jaskier demanded, a scary-sweet smile forming on his lips, rage still bubbling in his irises. 

The thief stared at him in disbelief.

Jaskier casted Igni with his hand, just to scare the man, make him go away. A steady stream of fire formed in his palm, and the thug’s eyes widened. He crouched and gently put the instrument down, backing away immediately once he’d done that. Jaskier was staring at his face, now an embodiment of pure fear.

“Get out of here!” He yelled at them, the fire now gone from his hand. The taller man grabbed the shorter one by the arm and ran as fast as he could, supporting his limping and bleeding partner in crime. It took them less than a minute to disappear in the forest.

Jaskier smirked, proud of his own achievement.

He went up to the place where the man left his precious instrument and picked it up, turning it around in every direction, checking for any cracks, making sure the strings were still in tune, and, most importantly, wiping away those nasty, greasy fingerprints left on the delicate wood. He was so consumed by taking care of his lute that the sounds of steps across the glade went by completely unnoticed.

Geralt approached his bard with the blueprint stuck behind his belt, unaware of the magical barrier still protecting the man. Yes, his medallion was vibrating due to the magic it sensed, but then again it hadn’t stopped vibrating ever since Geralt killed the golem. The heart of the creature was probably to blame, the organ resting in the witcher’s palm.

Geralt walked up to Jaskier and put his free palm on the bard’s shoulder in an attempt to pry his attention away from the instrument. Or, at least the witcher _wanted_ to put his hand on the man’s shoulder. What happened instead was a magical shield hurling Geralt across the glade as soon as his arm got even remotely close to the bard’s body. The witcher landed against a big stone with a loud thud, the air escaping from his lungs due the impact. The golem’s heart was left stranded somewhere in the middle of the clearing, ripped from Geralt’s hand by the sudden movement.

The noise startled Jaskier, almost to the point of dropping his beloved instrument. The man looked around the clearing with a confused expression and, upon seeing Geralt splayed out against a stone, he realized what must had happened.

“Geralt!”

He rushed to the witcher’s side without a second thought.

“Geralt, are you alright?” Jaskier asked, putting his hand on the witcher’s cheek, his eyes searching for any cuts or bruises with concern.

“Ugh.” Geralt grunted out. He shook his head and then started the tiresome process of getting up. “Why did you have Quen cast on yourself?” He asked, curious about the circumstances that made his bard use the sign.

“Well, you see,” Jaskier started his tale while grabbing Geralt under the shoulder to help him get on his feet, “I was about to walk out of the cave when I saw those two thieves trying to steal my _lute_ , can you imagine _the nerve_? So I scared them off.”

“What did you do?”

“Oh, the whole thing was absolutely _magnificent_ , dear! I outdid myself on that one.” Jaskier begun with a wide smile on his lips, and Geralt couldn’t help but think how much he adored that look on him.

“You got angry, didn’t you?” The witcher asked, even though he already knew the answer. He was fully aware how important the lute was to Jaskier. He also knew how scary the bard got once made truly angry, and, to be completely honest, he was happy he never got to be the receiving end of that rage.

“A bit, yes. I _might_ have gotten carried away, actually.”

“It was your lute, they deserved whatever you did to them.” Geralt vindicated Jaskier’s motivations, putting his hand to the back of his head, checking for any bleeding from places he didn’t want to bleed from.

“Oh, I didn’t really get the chance to hurt them _that_ badly. I just played with the signs a bit to make them think I could do _proper_ magic and then I threw a dagger at them. Not to brag, Geralt, but I’ve gotten _quite_ good at throwing them, you know? I got him right in his _thigh_. And, well, that sent them running!”

Geralt smiled, amused by Jaskier’s tale. He was up by then. He felt a bit dizzy after his head hit the stone, but otherwise he was okay. The incident would definitely make his back blossom with bruises, but he was used to that. He had Jaskier now. And somehow, his presence made the world and any injury it caused more bearable, less painful even.

Geralt was thankful for that.

And then, he heard a noise coming from the cave. A noise that grew closer with every second, a noise he had heard before, while still in the cave. He knew what was coming and he didn’t like it one bit.

“Jaskier, get on the horse and leave the glade.” He demanded, his face already stern, his hand already reaching for the sword on his back.

“Why, what happened?” Jaskier asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, a nervous habit he picked up when he was still a child.

“The noise. It must have woken the arachnomorphs in the cave.”

“ _The what now_?” Jaskier managed to squeeze out a high-pitched question. Thieves? He could take that. Monsters? He _absolutely_ couldn’t take that.

“The arachnomorphs.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about them sooner? I don’t know, for example _while we were still IN THAT CAVE_?” Jaskier asked a rhetorical question, his voice so shrill it almost made Geralt whince.

“Get on the horse and get out of here, we’re going to have this discussion later!” Geralt yelled at the bard, the noises getting alarmingly close.

Before Jaskier could answer the question, the first monster jumped right out of the cave, working its abnormally large legs and rushing towards the witcher and the bard.

Jaskier froze. He was not really fond of regular spiders. It was only natural arachnomorphs made his skin crawl. It was already too late for him to try and get on the horse as Geralt had suggested - the monsters were appearing one by one. The only choice Jaskier was left with was trying to get out of Geralt’s way and make sure he won’t be distracted during the fight.

Needless to say, Jaskier was worried about his witcher. Especially since Geralt took a rather hard hit just few minutes earlier. He was probably still just a bit dizzy, which couldn’t be helpful in fighting scary-fast overgrown spiders. Overgrown spiders that spit venom and ccould entrap you in their threads if you weren’t careful enough.

“Jaskier, get out of here!” Geralt shouted, and this one time Jaskier listened without discussing the rights and wrongs. He held the lute still in his hand close to his chest and attempted to hide in the forest surrounding the glade. He was about to turn on his heel and start running, but then- to him it felt as if his body stopped working.

He realised it was wrong to leave Geralt on his own like that. And yes, maybe his presence would only make Geralt sway in and out of battle focus, and maybe he wouldn't be able to help much, but now, now that he knew how to use daggers, and now that he knew how to cast _signs_ \- He couldn’t just stand idly by and watch his boyfriend fight the monsters on his own.

So Jaskier stayed. His teeth started chattering with fear, but he stayed.

When the monsters finally reached them, all hell broke loose. Jaskier was only half-aware of what was happening around him, trying his best to stay alive and not break his lute at the same time. He was casting signs left and right and then he turned around and there was Geralt being jumped by one of the arachnomorphs and oh Melitele what was Jaskier supposed to _do_? He cast Aard in its direction as fast as his fingers would let him but he didn’t take his positioning in consideration and he only wanted to help, really, but it just so happened that instead of blowing the monster _away_ from Geralt, he kind of… blew it _into_ him.

Jaskier watched Geralt struggle in horror. The witcher managed to draw his sword right through the creature’s filthy body and oh thank _whoever_. Geralt tried to get his sword out of the carcass but then the one last creature jumped him and the sword was left behind and Geralt was suddenly _defenseless_. His hands were pinned to the ground by the spider’s giant hairy legs and before Jaskier could even think about his course of action, he was already throwing his second dagger at the monster. The blade got lodged in the creature’s head, not nearly a fatal blow, but a good blow nevertheless, because now? Now the creature backed off a bit, releasing the witcher’s arms. Now Geralt could reach for the weapon. The witcher got hold of the handle and grasped the dagger, drawing it straight through the creature’s heart faster than Jaskier could speak. 

And then, with the last monster laying dead at their feet, everything was quiet again. The only sounds filling the clearing were Geralt’s grunts and Jaskier’s heavy breathing.

It took Jaskier a few seconds to take it all in. His heart was definitely trying to jump right out of his chest, he could taste iron in his mouth. He lost clarity of thought for a while, his hands were trembling with adrenaline, and he couldn’t really remember most of the fight. He just knew he mostly kept the creatures occupied, while Geralt was slashing through them like nobody’s business.

Geralt-

“Geralt!” Jaskier broke out of his adrenaline-infused halt and rushed to the witcher’s side, the man pinned down to the ground by the body of the last arachnomorph. Jaskier got to him and managed to roll the carcass over, not without a few grunts and curses. He kneeled next to him and put the lute down.

“Are you alright?” He asked, his voice feverish and urgent, his eyes trailing the witcher’s body for any signs of an injury, his hands cupping the man’s face.

After a few seconds filled with silence, Geralt finally responded.

“Never do that again.” Geralt said, his voice just a bit raspier than usual.

“Do what again?”

“Attempt to fight monsters when I tell you to run.” Geralt clarified, pulling himself up to a sitting position, grabbing Jaskier’s hands and removing them from his face, but still holding on to them.

“Oh I _know_ I shouldn’t have stayed, alright? I just- I didn’t want to leave you all alone after that _nasty_ smack-down you got from that boulder over there.” Jaskier tried to explain himself, moving his head in the direction of said boulder.

Geralt looked at him and Jaskier knew what that was about. Geralt was scared he would get himself killed. And Jaskier understood that. He was scared Geralt would get killed himself, countless times. But he was perfectly aware of his own mortality. He knew how delicate he must have been in Geralt’s eyes.

The thing was that Geralt had no idea just how painfully aware Jaskier was. He thought the bard was just reckless, risking his life like this, tagging along on his adventures. But it was all a choice, Jaskier’s choice.

And he would choose the same again if he had to.

“You could have gotten yourself killed, Jaskier.” Geralt verbalised just exactly what Jaskier had been thinking the issue was.

“But I _didn’t_ , so maybe let’s skip the grumpy bit and get to the point where you’re thanking me.” The bard made an attempt at lifting the mood, but, well-

“Thanking you for what, exactly? For helping the monsters with jumping me?” Geralt asked, a slight hint of irritation in his tone.

“Honestly, that was a _coincidence_ , I didn’t do that on purpose! I wanted to help!”

A deep sigh. Geralt massaging his forehead with his calloused fingers.

“I know you did. Just next time, stay out of the fights. Please.” Geralt looked at the bard as if he was made of stained glass; easily breakable and yet beautiful. And Jaskier half-hated, half-loved that look.

“ _Fine_. But only if you don’t hit your head beforehand.” He agreed to keep away from the action next time. Then, a sudden thought struck him. “Do you still have my dagger?” It was Jaskier’s last remaining weapon after the thief he stabbed ran off with the other dagger still in his thigh. And maybe he wouldn’t ask about it, if the second dagger hadn’t belonged to his father.

Geralt let go of Jaskier’s palms and reached for the hilt still buried in the carcass. He curled his palm around the cold metal and pulled it back, wanting to remove the dagger from the cold corpse. When he got the weapon out, Jaskier took a deep breath.

A part of the blade was melted. The shape was disfigured and there was still smoke rising from the metal.

Geralt brought the dagger closer to his eyes.

“It must have gone through the venom glands when you threw it.”

“I never saw that happen to _your_ sword.” Jaskier pointed out, taking the dagger out of Geralt’s hands carefully, as not to touch the destroyed part. He looked at the last remaining piece that reminded him of his father. Sadness bloomed in his cornflower blue eyes.

“Yes, but my sword is silver. And protected by magic runes.” Geralt said gently, placing his palm on Jaskier’s thigh. “I know a blacksmith in Oxenfurt that could probably fix it. Or make you a new one.” He tried to make his bard feel better. He knew how important that dagger was for him and Geralt was ready to go completely off the previously agreed upon path just to see Jaskier smile. In his attempts, his previous irritation with Jaskier washed away.

“But… that’s way off the road we agreed on. That would set us back a few weeks at least. The dagger’s not _that_ important, dear.” Jaskier mumbled out, sniffing a bit, his nose adorably wrinkled.

The witcher could spot a lie when he heard one. Especially from Jaskier’s mouth. The dagger _was_ that important, at least to the minstrel.

Geralt did his best to smile reassuringly, which was not easy with a face like his, and with a smile that had a history of being called nasty.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Besides, witchers rarely visit the city. There’s bound to be a contract or two there.”

“But you wanted to get to Vizima as fast as possible. The dagger can wait, we can go to Oxenfurt after you will have taken care of your business there, really, I don’t mind. Or we don’t even have to go to Oxenfurt, I can always get this bloody thing fixed in Vizima, there’s bound to be a blacksmith there, it’s quite a big city, you know-” Jaskier protested, gesticulating wildly with his free hand. He didn’t want to be a burden to his witcher. His tangent would not had stopped there if it weren’t for Geralt, interrupting the bard mid-sentence. 

“Your dagger can’t wait. Vizima can. My business there is not that urgent.” The witcher said firmly, his decision already made. He moved his palm from Jaskier’s thigh to his forehead, gently combing the unruly strands of brown hair back.

Jaskier studied Geralt’s expression for a short while before a smile bloomed on his lips.

“Thank you, dear.” He whispered softly. Then, he placed his hand on Geralt’s face and pulled the witcher in for a quick kiss. Both of them grinned into the gesture, honest smiles and honest tenderness.

Once the pair separated, Jaskier got up from his knees, dusted off his trousers and pulled out an embroidered handkerchief from a pocket concealed in his doublet.

“Is your armour resistant to their venom?” He asked, eyeing Geralt’s chestpiece.

Geralt raised his eyebrow.

“Yes?” He responded, not really sure where this was going.

“Perfect!” Jaskier exclaimed, and the second his eyes started glinting, Geralt knew his bard came up with something he wasn’t going to like.

Jaskier leaned down and, in one swift motion, wiped his dagger against Geralt’s armour, getting rid of any remnants of the venom on the blade. He put on a cheeky smile, straightened himself and wrapped the weapon in the handkerchief.

At first, Geralt wanted to look at the bard in disbelief, but what he had just done wasn’t really surprising for the witcher. Then, he considered scolding Jaskier, but the minstrel would listen and then act on his own accord anyway, so that was futile. In the end, Geralt decided to just sigh very loudly. After so many years of being on the road with Jaskier, he had already learned the bard was a cheeky brat.

Not that he minded that.

Geralt got up and wiped away the venom with his sleeve. He looked at their horses, still standing where they left them.

“Let’s go. Oxenfurt is not as close as I’d like it to be.” The witcher was about to walk towards the animals when Jaskier’s hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks.

“Can you take this from me? For safeholding.” The bard asked, the wrapped dagger in his outstretched hand.

Geralt eyed the bard and then, after a moment of consideration, he took the little bundle from Jaskier’s hands.

“Thank you, darling.” Jaskier purred, scratched Geralt under his chin, picked up his lute from where he left it and then strutted over to the horses, mounting Pegasus straight away.

Geralt stood there for what was probably two seconds, a bit surprised and a bit astounded. Then, he shook his head and followed the bard’s footsteps, hiding the bundle in Roach’s saddlebags, getting on the horse immediately after.

“Alright, Oxenfurt, here we come!” Jaskier half-said, half-shouted in his silvery voice, excited and in good spirits.

Geralt would give all the silver in this world for Jaskier to always be this cheery.

△

The first thing Geralt did once they found a place for a camp was starting to whet his silver sword. It was still light outside, but they had to start thinking of setting up a campfire. Not that Geralt had any problems with seeing in the dark, or that fire actually scared off any monsters (well, some, but for reasons unknown to Geralt, Jaskier still believed fire was a good weapon against all kinds of creatures and while Geralt was a rather patient man, he was not patient enough to try and convince Jaskier of the foolishness of his belief). It was Jaskier that demanded having a campfire, especially if they were to spend the night under the stars.

Like they would that very night.

So when Geralt sat down on the ground and tried to sharpen his sword, his attempts were cut short by the bard.

“Geralt, do tell me what _exactly_ are you doing?” He leaned over the witcher’s shoulder, and by the tone of his voice Geralt knew he wouldn’t be doing what he was doing any longer.

“Whetting my sword.” Came the brief answer.

“Oh, yes, _right_. Yes, that’s very important, but, my dear friend, let me propose an equally important occupation.” The words dripped like honey from Jaskier’s lips, sickly sweet and sugary and oh, did Geralt know that tone of voice too well. Apart from this being Jaskier’s seduction voice, it was also, coincidentally, his manipulation voice.

“And that would be?”

“Helping me gather some firewood. You know, for the fire? Because unlike you, darling, I can’t see in the dark, I’m quite rubbish in this area of life, really, while you can peacefully whet your sword by the crackling light of the fire.”

Geralt sighed heavily. He put his sword down, because well, the bard had a point there.

“I’m not one to judge, dear, but don’t you think _whetting your sword_ sounds _wonderfully_ erotic? I might even use it in a ballad someday.” Jaskier wondered aloud, kissing Geralt on the cheek and patting him on the shoulder before he straightened himself, ready for gathering brittle and dry wood. “C’mon, White Wolf, the sooner we get to it, the sooner you’ll be able to get back to _whetting your sword_.” He purred the last three words, making it sound just a little bit dirty, just slightly sensual.

Those words, coupled with Jaskier’s unbuttoned doublet and the see-through shirt he was wearing underneath made Geralt clench his jaw.

“You are going to drive me crazy one day, buttercup, I hope you know that.” The witcher confessed, his voice slightly more raspy than usual.

Jaskier looked at Geralt’s face. He looked at the witcher’s clenched teeth and he smiled that sly smile of his.

“Mhm.” He answered, pleased with himself, and then walked away, completely immersed in searching for wood.

Or so it seemed.

Geralt sheathed his silver sword and got up soon after their conversation, taking off in the direction opposite to Jaskier. He managed to gather quite a large collection of firewood over half an hour or so, and once his hands were full, he went back to the place they decided to spend the night in. He walked up to the centre of the nice little glade they’d found and, to his surprise, Jaskier was already kneeling in that spot, working very hard on starting the fire he was so stubborn on having. Geralt placed the found flammable material right next to the bard, considering his further plan.

He could go back to whet- _sharpening_ his sword, but then again, the sun hadn’t fully set just yet, so it seemed a bit of a shame to waste the remaining natural light on something he could just as well do in the darkness. There was something he’d greatly prefer to do in natural light though, and that something was gathering plants and flowers for his elixirs. During his walk in the forest he’d seen some that he should stock up on.

Without any further consideration, Geralt decided to do just that. Pick some flowers. Maybe if he managed to find some useless but pretty ones, he could make a flower crown for Jaskier. Nobody knew this, but Ciri once taught Geralt how to weave flower crowns. It was their little secret.

Before embarking on this quest of the highest difficulty, the witcher walked over to the sharpening stone as he called it in his mind and left his swords propped up against it. Then, he approached Roach and took the saddlebags off of her back, petting the mare in the process. Now, he was ready.

Geralt decided to start his search in a place where, if he were to stand there and bow down, his lower back would be completely turned in the bard’s direction. A coincidence, really. That absolutely wasn’t deliberate. He went to just the right place and started his flower-picking.

In the meantime, Jaskier’s attempts at starting the fire were not going well. In fact, they were going poorly. The fire just didn’t want to catch on, the blasted thing, and now, with the bard just _slightly_ distracted by the view before him (and _oh_ , what a _view_ it was), his struggles were to very quickly evolve from poor to _catastrophic_.

The fire was already definitely not cooperating with the poor minstrel, and now Jaskier was definitely ready to let it go to all hell, impatient to get as near to his witcher as physically possible. And, at the same time, he desperately didn’t want Geralt to laugh at his inability to start a simple bonfire, _that_ would be a stain on Jaskier’s honour.

And then, completely out of the blue, Jaskier got an absolutely _brilliant_ idea. His wonderful brain was genius enough to remind him of his quite new abilities of casting the witcher signs. One of which, oh look at that, was a fire sign. A sign Jaskier definitely could use to make the campfire work.

Without further ado, Jaskier backed away a little bit and assembled Igni with his left hand. He was going for just a little bit of fire, just a spark, really. And that, well. That didn’t go according to plan.

The stream of fire was slightly bigger than Jaskier had expected. It got the bonfire going alright, but it also caught the next thing in its path. 

And that just so happened to be Geralt’s arse.

Before Jaskier even had the slightest chance of commenting the event in any way, or of warning Geralt of his current predicament, the witcher was already sprinting his way to the river running through the glade. He sat down in the shallow water with a loud splash, the liquid barely reaching his ankles.

The entire scene was so surreal, so _cartoonish_ , that Jaskier started choking on his own laughter almost immediately after witnessing Geralt’s race to the water. He really did try to remain his composure, but every glance in the witcher’s direction made him lose it all over again.

Jaskier approached his witcher, still sitting in the stream, grumpy as they come. The bard tried to say something, maybe apologize, maybe make a witty comment, but everything was destroyed by another bout of laughter he desperately tried to choke down.

Maybe in different circumstances, Geralt would have reveled in Jaskier’s laugh, how melodic and loud it was. But the witcher was not in the mood for that.

“What are you laughing at?” Geralt grumbled, definitely irritated, possibly even mad, a frown on his face.

“Geralt, darling, I’m _terribly_ sorry, it was an accident!” Jaskier stopped for a while, but the short break was not enough to make him consider what he was going to say next. “But you have to admit, that was slightly amusing at least.”

The witcher got up from the river, and upon seeing a hole in Geralt’s leather, high-waisted pants Jaskier couldn’t help but snort once again.

“Not to me, no.” Geralt denied any traces of humour Jaskier found in the entire situation with his gruff voice, and then muttered a comment under his nose, a comment the bard was not supposed to hear. “Lambert warned me that would happen.” 

“Oh, he _did_?” Jaskier asked, _delighted_.

The bard wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t make at least one remotely funny (well, funny to _him_ ) comment.

“One thing is for sure though, darling. You have a _smoking hot_ arse.” The man said, his grin so wide it might have broken his face in two.

“ _Jaskier_.” Came the exasperated response.

Geralt went back to the now happily crackling bonfire, the frown still etched onto his face, still looking very much annoyed. He sat down on the same stone where he’d started taking care of his sword.

The bard had a feeling. He had this intuition telling him that being slightly smoked was not what had irritated Geralt the most. His intuition was pretty damn sure that the biggest factor in Geralt’s irritation were actually the pants. Or, rather, the hole in them. And well, once Jaskier thought about it, that made perfect sense.

Geralt rarely packed a spare of anything when on the path. His saddlebags were full of necessary ingredients, oils, elixirs, and other witchery stuff. A spare pair of pants was not exactly high on the priority list here. So, if Jaskier were to be the judge, he’d deem that nasty hole right in the centre of Geralt’s arse as the biggest culprit.

After this realization, Jaskier made it his point of honour to fix Geralt’s pants and, in result, to get his witcher to his more talkative and less stare-y state. And he knew exactly how to accomplish this.

Thankfully, the bard knew how to sew. Well, more or less. And even if it would turn out that Geralt could sew as well and he would be more than capable of fixing his pants himself, Jaskier was not going to let that happen. Those trousers were going to be fixed by him and no one else.

First, Jaskier walked up to Pegasus and freed the horse from the certainly heavy saddlebags. Once those were on the ground, the bard started his search. He had a very specific piece of clothing in mind, he was almost sure he’d packed that one black doublet he was never really fond of, and HA! Jaskier pulled the doublet out of his bag and threw it across his right shoulder. Then, he started rummaging through the protective case he put the lute in when on the road. This part of his mission was quite easy, as he knew exactly where he stashed the supply of backup strings. The troubadour pulled one out, wrapping it around his left thumb.

Now came the harder part.

Jaskier approached Geralt from behind, already preparing what he was going to say in his mind. And then, he started talking, and the usual happened.

“Geralt, I need you to take off your pants. And I need your hunter knife, too. I _definitely_ very need these two things.” The bard demanded, and he mentally slapped himself in the face. That was suave, Jaskier. Real smooth.

To his surprise, Geralt didn’t say anything. He didn’t curse, didn’t growl, didn’t question him. What he did instead was turn around, shoot Jaskier a glare, and then raise his eyebrow in a silent inquiry.

“Listen, I apologize for setting you on a little bit of fire. And I know for a fact that you probably don’t even own a spare pair of those pants, and I also happen to know how to patch clothes up, more or less, so please, darling, be so kind and let me fix these for you.” The bard clarified, trying really hard to mend his wrongs.

Geralt eyed Jaskier’s equipment suspiciously.

“You know how to sew?” He asked, slight disbelief ringing in his voice.

“I wouldn’t take it _that_ far, but I can mend things pretty well. I definitely know how to make your pants look whole. Or holeless.”

The witcher wasn’t convinced, which was clear to Jaskier just from his expression.

“Sweet Melitele give me patience, I’m not that _hopeless_ , Geralt, I had to learn how to stitch things up because, believe it or not, I still travel on my own sometimes, and I can’t be seen walking around in a doublet that has a _hole_ in it! So stop being a fussy old man and take off those blasted trousers!” The minstrel went on a short tangent, slightly irritated by the witcher’s distrust in his sewing talents. Honestly, he _knew_ what he was doing, didn’t he?

First, Geralt grunted. Second, he sighed. And then, he actually listened. He stood up, unbuckled his belt, took off his shoes and wriggled out of the leather pants, which left him in his chest piece and underwear only, much to Jaskier’s delight. He handed the trousers over to Jaskier before leaning down to his boots and getting his hunter knife from the special pocket at the back of his left shoe. The witcher straightened himself, gave the knife to the bard, and then moved closer to the centre of the camp, sitting down near the fire, keeping his knees close to his chest.

Jaskier followed his witcher to the bonfire. He took his place right next to Geralt and laid out all of his equipment right in front of him.

It was time to get to work.

First, Jaskier took his old doublet, unbuttoned it, and laid it over the back of Geralt’s pants, the pants that were already neatly spread out. He grabbed the hunting knife and he was about to make the first cut through the material when Geralt decided to speak up about the process currently taking place.

“Is this your doublet?” He asked with a tinge of concern and surprise in his voice.

“Yes.” The bard answered and, at the same time, started cutting his old piece of clothing.

“Jaskier, you don’t have to do-”

Jaskier started talking before Geralt managed to finish his sentence. 

“No, I do. You’re _my_ witcher, Geralt. If _I_ can’t go around in holey clothes, then that goes double for you, my dear. Besides, this doublet’s so old I wouldn’t dare to wear it anyway. It will be much better off on your arse.” Jaskier kept gesturing throughout his whole utterance. He was gesturing with his right hand, still holding the knife, which might have come off as a bit threatening to some.

Then, without another word, he got back to work.

Geralt watched as Jaskier’s soft and capable hands worked their way through mending the material, the bard’s tongue sticking out just a little bit, like it always did when the man was focused on something. Geralt found it quite endearing if he were to be honest. At one point of watching his minstrel Geralt’s palm wound up on the man’s nape, gently scratching the delicate skin there. The gesture made Jaskier stop for a while. He sighed with content and made a sound suspiciously similar to purring, going back to sewing moments later.

The sun was almost entirely hidden behind the horizon when Jaskier lifted up the trousers from the ground. He looked at them critically with furrowed eyebrows and squinted eyes, nodded, and then smiled.

“There.” He said, giving Geralt the mended pants. “They’re not perfect, obviously, but you won’t have to saunter around with a gaping hole.”

“You do know I could’ve done that myself, right?”

“I do, but it was my fault, so I figured repairing them would make for a nice apology. Also, I really like you in these trousers. It would be a _shame_ to lose them forever.” Jaskier explained his motivations and stretched his entire body, his back arching in a way that made Geralt’s fingers itch. “Besides, now we both have a good reason to go to Oxenfurt. So at least you’ll get something out of this detour too, dear.”

“I’m still surprised you can sew.” Geralt admitted. He stood up and pulled his trousers back on, putting his feet into the boots immediately after.

“As I’ve said, I’m not _completely_ hopeless, Geralt. It was something I was bound to learn sooner or later, really. Do you know how many times did I have to repair my own clothes after husbands or fathers threw me out of their houses, rather _impolitely_ might I add?”

Geralt smiled. He did that quite often in the bard’s presence.

“I assume way too many times.”

“Oh, you have _no_ idea, my dear.” A short pause of pondering, and then, “Don’t you think I deserve a kiss?” The bard asked, a playful smile on his face.

Geralt snorted.

“What for? Setting me on fire?”

“Well, _no_ , obviously. For mending your trousers for you. _And_ for making the campfire work.” Jaskier pointed to the little bonfire, proud of his accomplishment.

“The campfire that we don’t even need?” Geralt teased Jaskier, making the bard look at the witcher as if he’d lost half of his brain cells.

“Oh be _sensible_ , Geralt, even _children_ know monsters are scared of fire. So, what about the kiss, huh?” He asked, undefeated.

“Maybe later.” Geralt answered. He put his palm on Jaskier’s cheek for a while, his skin soft and plump under Geralt’s rough hands. The bard leaned into the touch, his own hand covering the witcher’s almost subconsciously. Then, the witcher reclaimed his palm and walked away from the fire.

He silently wondered how much time would pass before Lambert found out about the incident. And then, how much time would pass before he let it go.

Geralt sighed.

Lambert would never let it go. Much like he still ridiculed Eskel for trying to mend his broken sword with Igni only to break it more.

△

“Oh, Geralt, would you look at that!” Jaskier said with excitement, his eyes glittering.

Geralt looked at the thing that drew Jaskier’s attention. This turned out to be a rapier, a quite good one at that. The hilt was engraved with little flowers, almost as if the weapon was made specifically for his bard. 

He lifted his eyebrows in surprise.

“A rapier? Jaskier, what would you need it for?” He asked, curious.

“Darling, for _fighting_ , obviously.”

Geralt let out an exasperated sigh.

“Yes, I know. But what would do you with it now? You have your daggers, and I’ve taught you the signs. So why do you need another weapon?” A second of consideration and then another question, “Do you even know how to use it?”

“Geralt, _honestly,_ , I’m a viscount, dear. I’ve been trained in sword-fighting, and while I might not be quite as good as you are-“

“Obviously.”

“-I’m still quite _alright_ if I do say so myself. Besides, in case you haven’t noticed, I have only one dagger that is currently being repaired, so I don’t have a weapon, not _really_.” Jaskier finished his argument, the rapier still in his hands.

“It’s your money. If you want to have it, buy it.”

A smile bloomed on Jaskier’s lips.

“I know you just want to make sure I know what I’m doing, and I do know what I’m doing, Geralt. Maybe not always, but I sometimes do.” He then immediately called the vendor and paid for the weapon out of his own pocket.

Jaskier left the blacksmith with a beautiful new rapier, his dagger safely awaiting to be repaired in the workshop.

The bard couldn’t be happier.

He grabbed Geralt by the elbow, his step a bit more jumpy than usual. His mood seemed to radiate from him and for a moment there, Geralt thought his bard could outmatch the sun with the way he shone.

Suddenly, Jaskier inhaled air in a very specific way. The way the witcher knew meant yet another brilliant idea.

“Geralt, I’ve just had an absolutely _brilliant_ idea! There’s a minstrel performing in the main square, and I just thought, since you already have your new pants and we have some time to kill, maybe we could go and see him?” Jaskier asked all excited, almost like a child asking their parent for something sweet to eat and then awaiting the answer on their tip-toes.

Geralt pondered for a short moment, deciding that going to the square couldn’t do much harm.

“Fine. Lead the way.” The witcher answered and the bard smiled even wider, in response which Geralt thought was not humanly possible.

And yet there Jaskier was, brandishing a grin so wide the skin under his eyes crinkled in the most adorable way.

Geralt could marvel at that view for centuries and never grow bored of it.

They strolled to the main square hand in hand, their shoulders brushing against each other from time to time. Once they got to the square, they wandered a bit, checked out what the various vendors had to sell, and then, they finally settled in one place.

“I’ve been wondering about this one thing, Geralt, and I’ve come to conclusions.”

When Jaskier started voicing his thoughts, they were sitting on the curb, watching the minstrels and dancers performing in the middle of Oxenfurt’s square. Jaskier was holding the rapier he’d just bought on his knees, marveling at the embellishments on the hilt.

Geralt was not sure if he was going to regret asking Jaskier about his conclusions, but he asked anyway.

“And those are?”

“See, my dear, you, and by you I mean the witchers in general, could make an awful lot of coin just by using the signs. You all could be rich men. Take Igni, for example. It works perfectly well to mend a broken cauldron, but that’s not where the money is, _oh no_ ” Jaskier continued on with his tangent, setting the scene for the grand reveal of yet another brilliant idea.

“Where is it, then?” Geralt said, knowing Jaskier expected involvement in the conversation. 

“Have you ever thought about how wonderfully versatile Yrden is? Seriously, Geralt, you could all work in the prestigious position of a magical chastity belt, think about it! All the kings would pay a handsome fortune just to make sure their daughters don’t get deflowered too soon, and well, all you would have to do is just cast the sign on the poor girl’s thighs and problem solved.” The bard finished the sentence with a smile on his face, a smile that made it clear for the witcher that Jaskier was just joking. 

Geralt snorted at the ridiculousness of the entire thing. 

“Jaskier, it doesn’t work that way.” He explained, his golden eyes shining with amusement, a loving smile on his lips. 

“It doesn’t?” Jaskier asked, faking his amazement and outrage over the sign’s disobedience. 

“No, buttercup. That wouldn’t work." 

“Oh well then, that’s a shame. If it did work, you wouldn’t have to kill monsters all the time.” Jaskier said seemingly off-handedly. But to an ear well-trained in the different pitches and tones of the bard’s voice, to an ear like Geralt’s, it was clear as day that the aloofness of the tone was only a veil for hidden worry. 

“I don’t always kill monsters when money is needed. There are other ways of making coin. And I’m not the only one earning money between the two of us either.” 

“Yes, I know, but-” Jaskier stopped mid-sentence upon seeing a group of Redanian soldiers coming their way. The bard had a feeling nothing good was going to come from this encounter, especially judging by the face of the leading soldier. The expression Jaskier had seen oh so many times on husbands and fathers, the expression that meant nothing but trouble. 

“Geralt, they don’t look very friendly.” Jaskier whispered to his witcher, pointing at the soldier, “Maybe we should, you know, get out of here?” 

Geralt studied the soldiers carefully. He realized he recognised some of them, including the one apparently in charge. 

“No, maybe it’s nothing important. We’ll look suspicious if we start going now.” The witcher decided and then grabbed Jaskier by his elbow, pulling the bard up. “We should stand up, though. Just in case.” 

The yank was so sudden Jaskier barely had the time to catch his brand new rapier rolling off of his knees. When the blade was safe in his hand, he put it back into the brand new sheath dangling by his belt. 

“Nothing important, yeah, right, have you seen the man’s _face_ , Geralt? Because let me tell you, I’ve seen this exact expression pulled _many_ times and nothing good ever comes out of it!” The minstrel insisted on running away in a feverish whisper that almost got too loud to be called a whisper still, making wild gestures with his hands. 

“Calm down. If it is something bad like you’re saying, we’ll handle it. Quietly.” Geralt cut the conversation short just as the soldier in charge walked up to them, his stern face flooding Jaskier’s heart with all the memories of being forced out of someone else’s bedroom. 

The man looked at Geralt, carefully, coldly. His icy blue eyes were full of contempt, maybe even disgust. Not that Geralt wasn’t used to seeing stares like the one in front of him. 

“Are you Geralt of Rivia, the witcher?” The soldier finally asked, his voice grating and unpleasant, making Jaskier’s skin crawl. 

The bard unconsciously grabbed Geralt’s elbow. 

“Yes.” Came the short response. 

The soldier smiled. It was a violent smile, twisting his face into an uncanny grimace. His hand was resting on the hilt of his sword, as did the hands of every other soldier behind him. 

Jaskier didn’t wait for the encounter to go any further. He knew where this was going, if not from the look on the man’s face, then from the general tension hovering above them. 

The bard raised his left hand and, while his palm was tracing a circle in the air, his fingers forming the appropriate gestures, he said the words the guards needed to hear. 

“This is not the man you’re looking for.” He said while casting Axii. 

He did not expect the spell to turn on him as quickly as it did. 

At first, it seemed to have worked. All the soldiers looked slightly puzzled, a bit dazed. Then, slowly, they all started looking less hazy. 

Very unfortunately for Jaskier. 

Because as soon as the guard to the left of the leader regained his ability to form coherent thoughts, he asked a question Geralt knew always led to trouble. 

“Are you, by any chance, Master Jaskier?” The man asked in a tone superficially polite, hiding a splash of rage. 

Geralt might have been fast, but he was too slow to stop Jaskier from talking. And the bard, expecting praise for his songs and perhaps an employment proposition, confirmed. 

“Why, yes.” He responded, proud of having been recognised on the street. 

“You fucked my daughter, you bastard.” The guard said, his teeth clenched, clearly furious. 

“ _Have I_?” Jaskier wondered aloud, only making the situation worse. “What’s her name?” 

“Amelia.” Came the furious response. 

“Hmm… No, doesn’t ring any bells. It must have been a different bard. Maybe Valdo Marx, if you’re looking for someone to decapitate.” 

At this point, Geralt really wanted to do two things. One: smack Jaskier across the head, and two: smack himself in the forehead. 

He didn’t get a chance to do either of those things. As soon as Jaskier finished his sentence, the man unsheathed his sword, the rest of the soldiers following suit. There were about six of them, Geralt counted in his mind. Taking their speed and abilities into account, this should be an easy fight. 

At least that’s what Geralt thought. 

Because as soon as the guard yelled “Get him, boys, he fucked my Melia!” and everybody fled from the square, Jaskier drew his rapier. 

And maybe Geralt was foolish thinking Jaskier wouldn’t get involved in the fight, thinking he would just hide and wait out the whole thing when he knew perfectly well how feral his bard could be. But he truly didn’t take Jaskier’s presence in the encounter into consideration. And that made the fight infinitely more difficult for the witcher. 

Geralt unsheathed his steel sword in a quick motion and jumped right into the middle of the action. Only half of his focus went into countering and rendering the guards unconscious, while the other half was stuck on Jaskier, constantly checking out of the corner of his eye if the bard was holding up, if he needed any help. 

It turned out that Jaskier was actually quite fine with a rapier. He was telling the truth back at the blacksmith’s, which came as a small surprise to Geralt. 

What the witcher accidentally discovered that day was that the sight of his bard going head-first into sword fighting, parrying and leaping at the men, his eyes frenzied and focused at the same time, Geralt discovered that this very sight made his heart flutter just a little bit. It made heat travel down his abdomen. 

His bard was full of surprises. 

Another one of which came in the shape of a stream of fire coming at the guard currently trying to fight Geralt. Except the direction and the intensity of the flames were a bit misjudged. They ended up a little too close to Geralt’s face, almost burning his eyebrows off. 

He shot a stern look in Jaskier’s direction, to which the bard responded with a sheepish “Sorry!” shouted across the square. 

Not long after, the fight was pretty much over. Jaskier managed to take down two of the guards, while Geralt took care of the remaining four men. Needles to say, as soon as the last soldier went down, Geralt knew they had to leave town. Preferably as soon as possible. 

He walked up to Jaskier, a bit mad but still slightly turned on, and grabbed his arm. 

“Get to the inn and pack our things. Get the horses and meet me by the Novigrad gate.” He ordered, very aware of the witch hunt that was about to start. 

“What are _you_ going to do?” Jaskier asked, sheathing his rapier with trembling hands. 

“Get your broken dagger back.” Geralt responded and turned on his heel, already on his way to the blacksmith. 

“And where are we going?!” Jaskier shouted after him, watching as Geralt’s back grew more and more distant. 

“To Novigrad!” Came the shouted answer. 

Jaskier immediately turned around and took off in the direction of the inn they were staying in. 

△

“Geralt, can I ask you about something _immensely_ important?” Jaskier asked when they were nearing the Glory Gate in Novigrad.

They had arrived to the city two days back, left Jaskier’s dagger for Hattori to work on and since then, they had pretty much been strolling pointlessly around the entire town. And on one of these walks, with Jaskier’s arm looped around Geralt’s forearm, he remembered about the incident in Oxenfurt. And realised he still had no idea why the guards were after his witcher in the first place.

“Mhm.” Geralt grunted in the tone that Jaskier had grown to know meant “Yes”.

So he asked.

“What did you do to make the Redanian military so _mad_? That leader-type soldier really looked like he was about to kill you. Or skin you alive. And let me tell you, that was pretty surprising. I’m usually the one getting these kinds of looks.”

“You’ve got no one else but yourself to thank for that.”

“ _Don’t change the subject_ , what did you do?” Jaskier insisted, his fingers digging deeper into Geralt’s leather-covered muscle.

Geralt chuckled.

“You know how they are in charge of protecting the Borsody Auction House in Oxenfurt, right?” He asked, already expecting a very specific reaction from his bard.

“Well, yes. I’m not daft, everybody knows this.”

“I might have robbed them.” Geralt confessed and lo and behold, he got the exact reaction he had been expecting.

Jaskier’s mouth fell open. He was gaping at Geralt with those cornflower blue eyes of his, absolutely consumed by disbelief.

“You _**WHAT**_?” He yelled the last word out, and with his trained voice, the chances the people in the entire lower part of Novigrad heard the troubadour were pretty high.

“Shhh. It’s a long story, I’ll tell it you some other time.” Geralt tried to wrestle himself out of telling a truly _long_ story, but to no avail. Jaskier was way too excited to hear it to let it go so easily. The witcher knew the only way of making Jaskier drop the subject was distracting him with something completely unrelated.

“Geralt, you _absolutely can’t drop something like this_ and then say “I’m going to tell it to you some other time”! I _won’t_ have it! How did you get in? Oh, did it all go down like in this play? You know, Ocean’s Eleven?”

“What? No, I didn’t have a choice. Let’s say it was a job requirement.”

“Robbing the unrobable auction house was your _job requirement_?”

“Yes. Kind of.” Geralt started looking around, frantically searching for something to distract Jaskier with.

He was lucky. They were exactly in front of the presumably haunted house Geralt once had a contract for. Truth be told, it had never been haunted, although what it did have was a rather unusual tenant, a godling named Sarah. When it came to a decision, Geralt lied to the man who hired him, convincing him the house was so haunted there was no way of undoing the curse, ensuring Sarah’s safety.

He looked at the facade of the house and hoped this would do.

“Do you remember the haunted house I’ve told you about?” He asked his bard.

“Yes, _but_ -”

Geralt pointed to the building with his finger, Jaskier’s head turning in the same direction.

“Here it is.”

Judging from Jaskier’s gasp, it worked. Except it worked in an unexpected way that Geralt was to regret soon enough.

Because at that moment, Jaskier’s mind came up with something. Except this time, it was all about revenge. He had been waiting for so long to punish Geralt for that fillingless pie comment, constantly on the lookout for just the right occasion. And now, here it was, in the shape of a haunted house.

Jaskier knew what needed to be done. So, with a sly smile and silvery threads woven into his words, he spoke up.

“My dear, would you be so _kind_ as to give me a tour of this haunted manor?” He asked, turning his head to face Geralt again, his eyes shining with a mischievous gleam.

“What?” The witcher responded, his eyebrows furrowing a bit.

“You said it yourself it wasn’t really haunted, and I want to see it from the inside! And meet the little creature you’ve told me about!” The bard argued, a little pout forming on his lips.

“Sarah? The godling?”

“Yes, her! She must be a lovely chat.” 

Geralt sighed, resting his palms on his hips. While the house was definitely not dangerous, it certainly was underkept, with dust covering the furniture and cobwebs at every turn. So Geralt couldn’t really grasp Jaskier’s suspiciously sudden interest in the building.

“Jaskier, are you up to something?”

“ _Me_? Absolutely not. All I want is to see this wonderful building from the inside. What makes you think that?” Jaskier responded in the most sickly-sweet voice he could muster, a voice that reminded Geralt of a thick syrup.

Jaskier had just called a dilapidated, almost crumbling house a “wonderful building”. He was _definitely_ up to something.

Geralt just didn’t know up to what exactly. And the only way to find out was to agree to this weird request.

“Uh, sure. We can go inside if you want.”

“Oh darling, there’s _nothing_ in this world I currently want more than entering this _palace_.” Jaskier crooned, fighting against himself not to flash a sly smile. “Shall we?” The bard gestured towards the house with an open palm, excitement shining through the careful and deliberate intonation of his voice.

“Right.” Geralt hesitated for a short moment, a moment that was just enough for Jaskier to almost run to the door leading to the not-really-haunted house. The witcher followed his bard, his mind still preoccupied by trying to work out what his bastard was up to. When he got to the “palace”, Jaskier was shifting his weight from one feet to the other.

“Do you have a key?”

“No, but we won’t need it. The door has a busted lock.”

“Oh, right. Yes. After you, then.”

And so on Jaskier’s request, Geralt opened the door with ease, taking the first careful step inside. He wasn’t wary of the house, but what he _was_ wary of the bard’s brilliant ideas. By now all it took for Geralt’s skin to crawl was just hearing the two words.

He walked into the building, slowly, vigilant for any movements or sounds coming from behind him. Except maybe Geralt shouldn’t have looked out for specific sounds. Because this vigilance made him miss the fact that there was absolutely no sound coming from behind him (well, except from the beat of Jaskier’s heart and the flow of air coming out of his lungs). Meaning Jaskier wasn’t moving.

Meaning he wasn’t following his witcher into the house.

The second Geralt’s body crossed the threshold in its entirety, Jaskier slammed the door.

The medallion hanging on the White Wolf’s neck vibrated slightly, the cold of the metal trembling against his skin. Geralt was almost sure he knew what that meant. He tried opening the door, but the wood seemed to be sealed in place.

Geralt just sighed.

“Jaskier, what did you do?” Geralt asked in a raised voice, the tone of his voice filled to the brink with exasperation. He didn’t even know why he asked that question; he already knew what the bard had done.

“Remember how we found the Djinn over by the lake?” Jaskier started spinning his tale, the pride in his voice hearable for Geralt even through the barrier of a wooden door.

“ _We_?”

“Alright, remember how _you_ found the Djinn over by the lake?” The bard corrected himself when prompted.

Geralt stood there in the dark, his arms crossed over his chest. The whole situation was a bit amusing.

“And how your first wish was just straight-up murdering someone? Yes, I remember.”

“Not any _someone, Geralt_ , but _Valdo Marx_ , a _**disgrace**_ to the honourable service in the name of Lady Poetry!” Jaskier did have a tendency towards spewing exalted things like that. Which, to be clear, Geralt thought was utter bullshit.

“Is this why you locked me up? To give me a lecture on how awful Marx is?” The witcher asked, getting slightly impatient.

“ _No_. You made this tiny little comment then, by the lake. About my singing. Not a very nice comment, mind you. So I saw this manor over here and thought well, locking you up in a not-so-haunted house until you apologise isn’t exactly the worst revenge ever, don’t you think?” Jaskier finally revealed his master plan. Geralt could imagine his exact expression just from the tone of his voice.

The White Wolf smiled to himself, unable to contain the glee he felt upon realizing Jaskier’s entire revenge plan had a very obvious fatal flaw.

The bard sealed the door with a witcher sign.

A sign Geralt could very easily undo himself.

“Jaskier, I think you haven’t thought this plan through.” He pointed out, his smile only growing wider.

“What do you mean?” Geralt could hear the slight panic in Jaskier’s voice, his silver tongue giving way to confusion. He could imagine the expression on the bard’s still youthful face, how he stood there, his palms on his hips, his confidence suddenly shaken.

All the witcher had to do was form a simple gesture with his left hand to unseal the door, no sweat. He opened the door and walked out of the building like nothing happened.

“You forgot I can dismantle the sign, buttercup.”

Jaskier made a few airy noises with his mouth, the same noises he made way back by the lake, when Geralt insulted his singing. He always looked funny when he was indignant over such little things.

“I- Wha- That’s not _fair_ , Geralt!” The bard exclaimed, pointing his right index finger at the witcher. “I just wanted you to apologise!”

“That was a long time ago, sweet thing.”

“It doesn’t matter! I still demand an apology from you.” Jaskier pouted, crossing his arms over his chest. Geralt kind of understood his point. If Jaskier had told him he was a rubbish monster hunter, he wouldn’t have liked it either. So what the witcher did was sigh and then he did what needed to be done.

“I’m sorry for saying your singing is like a pie without a filling. I didn’t mean it. I really like your singing voice.” He said, looking his bard in the eyes.

“Thank you!” Jaskier beamed and kissed Geralt on the cheek, leaving a wet mark. He grabbed Geralt’s hand, intertwining their fingers together. “Let’s get back to the inn.” He suggested, ready to jump into their bed and stay there for the remaining hours of the day.

“Yes, let’s.”

They walked in silence for a bit, the sharp, early-spring air biting their cheeks. Geralt seemed to be thinking something over. Jaskier assumed he was planning where to go next when the witcher spoke.

“Please don’t use the signs without my supervision.” Geralt said, surprising the bard with his request.

“What? Why?”

“Multiple reasons. One of which is setting me on fire. Another one being you just seem incapable of using them responsibly.”

Yeah, Jaskier could kind of see the reasoning behind that. He wasn’t going to argue with his partner. Just maybe bend the rules the little. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

“Even when someone attacks me?”

“Let’s make this an exception.” Geralt agreed, because well, that was the entire reason for teaching his bard the signs. Saying no to this would be a bit idiotic. At least that’s what Geralt thought.

Jaskier smiled. The well-known sparkles of mischief appeared in his eyes.

“Alright, dear, I’ll _try_.” He said, pressing his head against Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt knew Jaskier was lying. He knew he would use the signs again, unsupervised, and probably set something on fire.

He could only hope that something wasn’t going to be him.

△

“So?” Jaskier asked, breaking the silence filling the air.

“So what?”

They were sitting in their room in a run-down inn in a hamlet by the graceful name of Alness, Geralt putting oils on his silver sword and Jaskier mindlessly strumming his lute.

“What’s disappearing the people?” The bard asked after the details of the contract Geralt took from the tavern owner.

“Just a couple of drowners. I should be back in an hour.” The witcher responded, the wrinkle between his eyebrows showing just how focused he was.

“Oh, so you’re leaving now?” Jaskier suddenly got restless. He put his lute down immediately and started fiddling with the rings on his fingers.

Geralt raised his right eyebrow.

“Yes. The sooner I get rid of them the better.” He answered, a bit curious.

“Yes, quite right. Less dead people I suppose.”

“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back. And please, for the love of Melitele, don’t use the signs.”

“Mhm. Yes, whatever you say, dear.” The bard responded, weirdly absent. Geralt knew what it meant - Jaskier’s thoughts were racing at neck-breaking speed. And that never ended well.

“Jaskier, I’m serious.” He insisted, now a bit hesitant to even leave the room, nevermind the building. The witcher stood up and sheathed his sword, ready to go.

“Yes, I know. I’ll be good, I promise.” Jaskier vowed while standing up from their bed only to walk up to Geralt and kiss him good luck. “Don’t get killed.”

“It’s only drowners, buttercup. I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t get too muddy then. At least now there’s no risk of the gunk getting stuck in your hair, dear.” He said, running his hand through Geralt’s short strands. “Off you go.”

The witcher grabbed Jaskier’s palm, pressed a quick kiss into it and then turned around and left the room, leaving the bard all alone.

Which was exactly what Jaskier wanted.

He had devised a genius plan to make up for his recent shenanigans to his dear witcher. A plan that required an unsupervised usage of the witcher magic.

Was Jaskier going to respect Geralt’s sign-related request after the not-so-haunted house incident?

Of course not. He had a permit and he could do whatever the heck he wanted.

-

Geralt wasn’t expecting to see the inn burning down to the ground when he got back from his drowners hunt.

He quickly looked around, trying to spot Jaskier in the crowd, his first reaction to make sure his bard was safe and sound and there he was, standing quite far away from everyone, looking very worried, the lute strapped across his shoulders.

Geralt walked up to his bard, elbowing quite a few people in the process. He dropped the drowners head and grabbed the man by his shoulders and turned him around, searching for any signs of injury.

“Geralt, I’m fine! It’s alright.” He tried to calm his witcher down, covering the man’s hands with his own palms. “I’m alright.”

Geralt calmed down a bit, his breathing slowing down. And then, he asked a question that shook the ground under Jaskier’s feet.

“What did I tell you about using the signs?”

“Geralt! Honestly, that very obviously _wasn’t me_!” Jaskier lied, his eyes constantly searching for something to look at, his voice going higher in pitch towards the end of the sentence, instantly giving him away to anyone who knew him.

Geralt sighed. When was his bard going to learn it was impossible for him to lie to the witcher?

“Jaskier, your voice went higher. Your heartbeat is faster. I know you’re lying.” Geralt pointed out, still relatively calm.

“The heartbeat’s faster only because you’re around.” Jaskier tried to flirt his way out of the question, a tactic that usually worked for him, but not this time. Geralt took his hands off from the man’s shoulders, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“ _Jaskier_.” Came the irritated response, accompanied by a very stern stare.

“ _OH ALRIGHT_ , it _was_ me! I already paid the owner for the damages! Stop staring at me like I killed a newborn child!” Jaskier finally gave in, spreading his arms wide.

Geralt reverted back to his neutral gaze, furrowing his eyebrows immediately after.

“You paid him? How?” He asked, confused. Last time he checked, they were pretty low on money.

The troubadour waved his hand like it wasn’t a big deal.

“I gave him a slip to withdraw a sum of money from my family’s vault.”

“They won’t get mad at you?”

“Mphm. Who cares what they think?” Jaskier scoffed at the idea.

Geralt sighed, letting his arms hang loose by his sides. He looked down at the severed drowner head he’d dropped by his feet.

“I guess the owner won’t pay me now.” He wondered aloud, kicking the head with the tip of his boot. Jaskier watched as the trophy rolled a few inches away. he let out a quiet sigh.

“No, I suppose not.”

“Vesemir was right.”

Now that statement came out of nowhere and took Jaskier by surprise. Well, not really. Vesemir was usually right, after all.

“What about? The bard asked for clarification. He wasn’t expecting the answer he got.

“About me regretting teaching you the signs.”

“You could always call them the signs of regret.” Jaskier said with a smirk on his lips, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that made him look ridiculous.

Geralt snorted at the bad joke.

“Jaskier, do you really think anyone would call anything that?” He asked, and then sighed again. “Let’s go, we have an inn to find.”

Jaskier didn’t complain or protest at ridiculing the signs of regret thing, because really. It wasn’t his best word work by any chance. And maybe the quip was bad, but it almost made Geralt laugh, which definitely counted as a win in Jaskier’s book.

And yet, he still liked it, even if it made for a bad name and an even worse joke.

**Author's Note:**

> so.
> 
> finally.
> 
> this fic has been in the works for i think four months and, lo and behold, two rewrites and 15k words later, here it is.
> 
> a couple of things to address here.
> 
> 1\. timeline? what timeline? i don’t know her. referencing the events in the show AND the events in the game in the same fic without explaining the timeline is how i roll.  
> 2\. this is set in what i call the “book!geralt looking like game!geralt with short hair with tvshow!jaskier” verse. i just can’t help but make geralt the softest boi around. i apologise.  
> 3\. english is not my first language, so i apologise for any mistakes  
> 4\. this is, by far, the longest fic i've written so far, so please, give it some love
> 
> and finally, thank you for reading all the way through here. if you liked this fic, please leave a mark! my tumblr is @julian-de-lettenhove


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